


The Presumption That Once Our Eyes Watered

by wedjateye



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:50:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wedjateye/pseuds/wedjateye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crawford has burnt his bridges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Presumption That Once Our Eyes Watered

**Author's Note:**

> My original idea regarding the use of food morphed somewhat in the writing. I certainly never intended there to be quite so much product placement, but I was grateful to my flist for their help with American snack food suggestions, so all the branding is by way of thanks. Largely a character study. The slash registers possibly a 0.1 on the Smut Richter Scale
> 
> Title taken from a Tom Stoppard quote (Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead):
> 
> "We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and the presumption that once our eyes watered."
> 
> Contains minor spoilers for Kapitel Episodes 12: Abschied, Why, and 13: Bruch, Rain of Revenge. Betaed by Kispexi2 with additional input from Kinukitty.

The roadside stand looks too ramshackle to be really promising but Dad pulls the car over anyway. I’m glad because I’m not quite ready for the day to end yet. I dig my fingers deep into the packet of Funyuns, scoop up the last of the salt and grease lodged in the corner, and lick them slowly clean, one by one, while Dad climbs out to inspect the melons. Soon enough he’s beckoning me to come try. The grin he gives to the nuggety old farmer is as wide as the one he gave me when I finally hooked a fish. I bet he’s still wishing I hadn’t insisted we throw it back but it _was_ too small. I measured it twice. Now we can take a big, fat melon home to Mom instead and maybe she won’t tease us too much.

The farmer nods gruffly at me. None of that ‘How old are you, son?’ garbage, as he holds out a slice, so I decide to give it a taste. I’m sure I’ll still be able to squeeze in the dinner that Mom always has ready, even though we’ve told her and told her that she’ll have to cook again, so our catch doesn’t stink up the fridge. She’s such a pessimist.

"’s’good," I say politely, and it’s true. Juice, hot from the sun, drips down my chin as I tilt my head back and suck at the sweetness, the ripe scent filling my nostrils until I can no longer smell the tang of burnt stubble from the field on the other side of the fence. The sky is just beginning to darken. The deeper blue over in the east is the exact shade of the sweater the girl next door wears when the evening chill hits. I wonder if having another slice will make us too late for me to see her leaving to take her dog for a walk. It’s really good watermelon though, so I smile at the farmer as I throw the end into the battered bucket he holds out to me.

His eyes crinkle up but his mouth just sort of twitches as he hands me another bit. Maybe he’s too old to smile properly, or the sun has baked his face too long and it doesn’t move much any more. Except now he’s frowning, every muscle working overtime, as another car pulls up with a quiet rumble.

I turn to look but all I can take in is the glint of sunlight from tinted windows before my vision starts breaking up at the edges. Jagged, bright slashes, expanding far more rapidly than usual, swiftly followed by the first throb of pain, right up the back of my throat.

"Dad." My voice sounds all high and squeaky and I can’t slow my breathing, even when his hand descends on my shoulder. He’s here, I tell myself, he’s right here.

I can see the melon slice, trampled into the dirt; a pulpy, raw wound, even as my hand clutches at the slippery rind.

Two car doors slam closed and I lurch as the echoes magnify and multiply. Dad steadies me, pulls me towards him, then I’m falling, falling to my knees, the chaos in my head erupting to surround me with movement and noise. By the time I’ve found my anchor it’s too late. I feel the blow, crashing against the back of my head, a fraction of a second before the real thing hits.

~

Crawford smiles urbanely as he leans against a pillar, surveying the ballroom. He hates these things. The inevitable argument with Schuldig over taming his hair into a semblance of order. Juggling Farfarello’s medication to ensure it restrains his more violent impulses until Crawford wants them unleashed. At least he never has to worry about Nagi. The boy may feel panicked, being cornered by the son of some diplomat or other, eager to practice his appalling Japanese, but he’s too well trained to show it.

Takatori Reiji always wants a show of strength and what the client wants, Crawford delivers. For now at least. The implicit disrespect for his team’s talents will not be forgotten.

Observing this evening’s target affords him some amusement. The vision replays over and over in his mind’s eye, whilst the oblivious American politician stuffs his face with canapés. Boom; blood and brains spray from the back of his head and a gaping hole replaces his yammering jaw. Rewind, and he’s smiling obsequiously as he compliments Takatori on the authenticity of his apple pie.

Crawford allows one eyebrow to quirk in distaste. Takatori never resists a chance to preen and gloat.

Schuldig catches his eye from across the room. Smiles gleefully at him. Crawford immediately blanks his expression, letting the length of his answering look convey his disapproval of whatever Schuldig is up to. He’d better be busy rewriting the memories of the target’s formerly devoted wife. Her hysterical confession to multiple affairs is what will seal the verdict of suicide. And bring down a few of Takatori’s rivals.

"Daddy, Daddy, they have moon pies!"

"Do they sweetheart?" The politician ignores squealing laughs of protest as he ruffles blonde hair, tweaks a royal blue ribbon.

Boom.

~

Schuldig flops onto the lounge next to Crawford. He refuses to react. Ammunition results in redoubled efforts to be obnoxiously annoying. Something Schuldig already excels at.

"Farfarello asleep?"

"Out like a light. Looks like one too, dangling upside down," Schuldig smirks. "Pity the drugs don’t let him get it up. It could make for a nicely kinky little scene."

Crawford grunts and taps a bit harder on his laptop.

"Did you tuck Nagi in already?" Schuldig asks, sucking idly on a lock of his own hair. Crawford blinks. Can’t see the angle. They’re all sharks, circling at the barest hint of blood in the water; there has to be an angle.

"He wasn’t needed any longer," he replies calmly.

The boy was grey with fatigue. He’s much better at hacking than Crawford but nowhere near as good at functioning on three hours of sleep with a pounding headache. Lapses in Nagi’s control tend to be somewhat expensive and awkward to cover up. Better to avoid them.

Schuldig is mercifully quiet for almost ten minutes. Quiet enough that Crawford almost relaxes, despite Schuldig’s constant fidgeting. Fidgeting that takes on new meaning when a knock sounds at the door.

Schuldig stretches ostentatiously, grinning as he says, "Whoever could that be?"

Crawford suppresses his surge of anger, instead focusing on the door, on what will happen when it opens.

"La Tour D’Argent?" he queries.

"Spoilsport," Schuldig sulks.

"When did you develop such refined tastes?" Crawford sneers.

"I thought it might be amusing to eat the Minister for Finance’s duckling," Schuldig snaps back, hauling himself upright.

"And the head chef and maitre d’ are your idea of a comedy duo?"

"You never let me have any fun," Schuldig complains as he throws the apartment door open.

Two impeccably attired gentlemen stand beside a gleaming silver trolley, identical supercilious looks on their faces. The chef’s toque is perched on his head and it doesn’t waver at all as he whips the silver dome from a platter with a flourish.

‘Voila’ sounds faintly in Crawford’s head. In reality, the dome clangs loudly, as the chef and maitre’d look at each other in horror, hands dropping to shield their private parts as they scuttle away.

Schuldig wheels the trolley into the apartment, closing the door behind him with a vicious kick.

Crawford clears his throat pointedly and Schuldig flicks him a glance.

"Oh, unclench your ass for five minutes! They suddenly realised they were performing a naked can-can, in the middle of the most popular drag show in Ikebukuro. They were never here."

"Witnesses," Crawford comments drily.

"All have their brains dribbling out of their ears. Are you going to eat any of this, or what?" Schuldig peers at him through his mess of hair.

"I’m not hungry," Crawford responds haughtily, turning back to his screen. He’s too tired to push, to foresee whatever repercussions will flow from Schuldig’s latest frivolity. He doesn’t have any sense of dread though. The future feels as tangled and impossible as ever and he takes what little reassurance there is to be had in that.

Schuldig grabs the platter and flounces off to his bedroom.

~

It’s cold on the rooftop car park and Nagi’s constant sniffling is getting on Crawford’s nerves. Schuldig paces endlessly and Crawford can’t think of a good reason to tell him to stop, since he claims to be scanning for the target’s car. Crawford’s sure Schuldig knows that Takatori’s loose-lipped subordinate is still tucked up in bed with his mistress. They’ve endured the man’s brittle manners often enough for Schuldig to be able to locate his mind in any crowd.

Crawford is almost disappointed Schuldig is keeping his peace. The point of this two-hour wait is to enforce some discipline. To remind his team that they must obey him to the letter. To not let them become sloppy by relying too much on Crawford’s precognition – the most treacherous of talents.

Schuldig, the bastard, has failed to question his authority and is giving a damn good imitation of vigilance. Crawford is the one who has allowed Farfarello to make a coffee run. Perhaps he took some of the Irishman’s pills by mistake.

"Farfie! I’m freezing my balls off here," Schuldig calls. "I was about to check the nearest convent."

Farfarello’s canine teeth glint as he smiles at that thought.

"Which one’s mine?" Schuldig asks as Farfarello hands Crawford a styrofoam mug.

"They’re the same," Farfarello says. "White with two sugars."

"You idiot! Crawford takes his black."

Farfarello shrugs. "Civilised people drink tea, don’t they Nagi?"

"We’re hardly civilised," Crawford notes, taking a gulp. Too sweet but still scaldingly hot, just how he likes it.

Schuldig blows on his for a minute before sipping it carefully. His face screws up and he swears before grabbing Crawford’s cup and sniffing at it.

"Goddamnit!" He pours the liquid out before meeting the puzzled look Crawford hasn’t managed to cover with annoyance yet.

"Couldn’t you taste that? The milk was soured."

A chill runs along Crawford’s spine. It really is fucking cold up here. "You must have had the a la carte Rosenkreuz dining menu," he scoffs.

Schuldig’s face tightens resentfully, then his eyes narrow predatorily.

"Anosmia? What the fuck’s anosmia?"

Rage travels along Crawford’s skin in a heated wave. His coat feels too constraining; the double gun holster beneath it is digging in to his shoulder blades and making his hands tingle.

"Target," Nagi interjects.

Crawford takes a deep breath. "Do your job," he admonishes.

~

Crawford orders Schuldig and Farfarello to submit to whatever punishment Takatori dishes out for the unplanned death of his daughter. Their futures depend on it, he tells them. He’s had a very clear vision. Farfarello shrugs. Schuldig glowers.

Crawford intervenes before things get too out of hand. Fractures impede team efficiency. Schuldig still doesn’t speak to him for six days.

Crawford finds the peace refreshing. His sense of relief when the silence finally ends is only because now he can be sure that Schuldig can’t read him after all.

~

The interminable round of meetings have finished early for once, so Crawford takes advantage of the opportunity to escape home for some extra planning time. He’s on his second cup of coffee, laptop fan whirring steadily, when Schuldig comes in the front door. Schuldig’s hesitation is barely noticeable but his smile jars. Too bright. Too open.

Crawford pretends not to watch as Schuldig casually transfers his shopping bag to the hand furthest away as he crosses the room. He sticks his leg out at the last moment, surprising even himself.

"Fuck!" Schuldig yells as he sprawls to the ground, bag spilling its contents far and wide. He scrabbles frantically, shoving things back out of sight as Crawford surveys the scene. It doesn’t make sense for a moment or two. Schuldig’s always had a sweet tooth, though the packets of Oreos and Twinkies don’t seem his usual fare. The soda that rolls to bump against Crawford’s foot finally triggers realisation. Dr Pepper is hard to find in Tokyo and this can has no katakana.

Imports. They’re all imported from the US. And that makes absolutely no sense at all…

Crawford shoves Schuldig so violently that he slams into the corner, jammed between the television set and the wall.

"Nein, nein," Schuldig protests, panicked enough to revert to German. "You don’t understand."

Crawford understands well enough. He can see it all clearly. Feel his fingers around Schuldig’s throat, squeezing, squeezing. See blue eyes staring dully from a face suffused an ugly purple.

Schuldig’s hands claw at him, rending his skin..

Then Crawford’s flopped back against the lounge, struggling to draw breath against the pain and nausea blasting about in his skull.

"Sorry. I’m sorry but you don’t understand," Schuldig rasps, kneeling above him.

Crawford blinks at him through glasses knocked askew, unable to summon any defence.

The sound of a ring-pull being popped is followed by sharp fizzing and muted swearing. Schuldig leans towards him, close enough for his breath to stir Crawford’s hair. He cups Crawford’s face in cool, slippery fingers and presses warm lips against Crawford’s own, murmuring, "You just have to let me in."

Crawford can feel Schuldig’s mental presence, soothing against his mind, like water lapping against the side of a boat. Then Schuldig’s tongue slips into his mouth, sweet and tingling from the soda.

Flavour. A burst of pure flavour floods through him, laden with memories so fresh and clear he can’t breathe.

Schuldig pulls back, swallowing hard, poking his tongue out and scraping it back into his mouth against his teeth.

"Scheisse. That stuff tastes like cough syrup. Really _bad_ cough syrup."

Crawford tries to talk and swallow all at the same time, and ends up coughing so hard that tears leak from his eyes.

"It does," he agrees, when he can finally speak. He pushes his glasses straight on the bridge of his nose and finds Schuldig smiling uncertainly at him. "I’d forgotten."

  



End file.
